Hey Man
by prosecutorial
Summary: Klavier and Daryan have a little routine. Step one: get drunk. Daryan's POV, written Palahniuk style. That is to say, deliberately disjointed diction.


The first thing I think when I come to is that I have no idea what time it is. It's dark, probably late. The only light in the place has _someone's _purple jacket thrown over it.

It's quiet. The guys've all passed out, Klavier's stuffed in the crack of the couch with our remote and I'm laying here on the couch like a bum, hanging onto an empty beer can for dear life. I drop it and it rolls away under the table.

My stomach grumbles and Klav pulls himself out of the buttcrack and throws himself on top of me. He's straddling my leg and I'm just sitting here trying not to fall off.

"Hey," he says. He's clawing at my shirt, pulling himself up to face me.

"What," I say.

He goes, "Bro. Daryan."

He laughs.

And it's so damn cute.

He says, "Daryan, Daryan." Saying my name over and over again.

"What is it?" I grumble.

He looks at me with these huge, blue eyes. But the whites are all red and his lids are half-open. Too drunk for his own good. His face is all red too, even the tip of his button nose.

Too damn cute.

He says my name again so loud I slap my hand over his mouth.

"What is it!" I hiss.

"Daryan," he says. "I _liebe _you."

I liebe you.

I'm not even shitting you right now. That's what he says.

He says, "I liebe you, _so much._"

It's not like this is the first time this has happened.

"I liebe you too, man," I say.

I smooth his hair down where it's sticking straight up. He's still looking at me with this face, this stupid face.

And he kisses me.

And, it's nice.

He hangs onto my collar and I'm trying to hold him but he's moving around too much. He pulls himself off my face and looks at me. His bloodshot, half-lidded, stupid, adorable face, just staring at me.

I can't take it.

I pull him back on my face. He isn't expecting it, and I feel him gasp.

But it's not like this hasn't happened before.

My hands are shoved in his back pockets, and he's climbing all over me. He's going "ja" between kisses, between breaths. His hands are wandering, trailing down my front zipper, and I grab his hand. We're not going there tonight. I pin it behind his back in an attempt to make the gesture seem even remotely sexy, like some kind of police role-play or some shit, though I realize the stupidity in saying "you have the right to remain silent." It'd kill the mood.

Instead I turn the tables, flipping him on his back. I'm the one straddling him now, and I'm all over him. He's groping hopelessly with his free hand. He's squirming and we're practically dripping off this couch.

Then the TV turns on.

Hey guys, we found the remote.

"Daryan, my arm," he says, but I ignore him. I'm kissing him deep now. I can taste the booze, and could probably get drunk all over again on his spit alone.

I can feel him let out a small, throaty groan. I'm all about that. I'm touching him all over and his arm is hooked around my neck.

Until all of a sudden it's pushing me away.

"That's enough," he whines between kisses.

This whimper of a voice he's got right now, it's enough to drive me crazy.

He says, "Daryan. Daryan!"

I stop kissing him. I can't help but oblige. He's holding me at arm's length, his forearm pressed across my chest like I'm some kind of shield.

And he's glaring at me.

With that stupid adorable face.

His eyebrows are knitted together and his mouth is twisted into the cutest pout you ever saw. I must have pissed him off.

I flop back onto the other end of the couch, and he pulls himself up.

I say, "What'd I do?"

He doesn't say anything though. He's rubbing his eyes, his cheeks. He's stretching his arm, the one I had pinned under him.

He's not looking at me anymore. Instead he's glancing around the room, his eyes finally settling on the TV that's playing I don't even know what.

Now I'm pissed at myself for letting it go on so long.

And it's not like we don't do this every time we get drunk.

We have our little routine.

Step one: Get wasted.

Step two: Make out.

"Sorry, man," I say.

He's draped over the arm of the couch, his own arm draped over his eyes. It's like he's posing for Vogue or GQ something. The little shit.

Step three: Hate each other vehemently.

And I'm just wallowing in self-loathing as I pore over him with my eyes, almost wishing we _had _gone there tonight. Every time we make out it gets worse. I want him more and more.

I'm so damn pathetic.

I can't even make up my mind.

Step four: Fall a little deeper into an inescapable hole.

I run my hands through my hair, shaking it out and letting it fall over my shoulders. I'm thinking about going to bed and leaving him here.

Then he starts laughing.

I'm watching him, and he's laughing and laughing. His chest is quivering, his whole body heaving up and down until finally it rests with a sigh.

"Daryan," he says.

I sigh. "What," I say.

"If we're both still single in, like, a hundred years," he says, "can we get married?"

And I can't help but laugh.

"Sure, man," I say. "Whatever."

I get up, stretch, and scoop him up.

I say, "Come on. Let's go to bed."

"Daryan," he says, slapping my chest, "I'll have you know I'm not cheap."

"Shut up, dude."

And I laugh again.

Because you can bet your ass he won't be hearing the end of that one tomorrow morning.


End file.
